Disclaimer: The author's imagination and passion are the only sources of inspiration for this novel, which is a work of dedication. Parallels between these pages and the past or present may be apparent to some readers, but they are completely coincidental. You are free to interpret this art anyway you see fit, and it is meant for your enjoyment.
The Ramirez estate was a masterpiece of tropical modernism, but to Ysabella, it had become a sprawling, silent cage. Two weeks had passed since she was discharged from St. Luke's. The bruises on her arms from the IV drips had faded into faint, yellowish shadows, and the doctors declared her "physically recovered."
But the void in her chest was growing.
She stood on the balcony of her second-floor bedroom, staring out at the manicured lawns and the high perimeter walls that Mateo had reinforced with even more sensors. Her family was there—her mother's gentle humming from the kitchen, her father's quiet presence in the garden, and Mateo's constant, hovering protection. They were her world. They were her safety.
So why did she feel like she was grieving for someone she didn't know?
"Ysa? You've been staring at that fountain for twenty minutes," Mateo said, stepping onto the balcony. He looked at her with a mix of relief and a hidden, gnawing guilt. He had his sister back, but he knew he was keeping a giant, golden-haired secret from her.
"I feel... empty, Kuya," Ysabella whispered, her fingers tracing the cold iron of the railing. "It's like there's a song stuck in my head, but I can't remember the melody. I keep having that same dream."
"The coffee shop?" Mateo asked, his voice tightening.
"Yes. And the man. I see his eyes—they're so blue they look like ice. And I feel... I feel like I'm in trouble, but I'm not scared. It's the strangest thing." She turned to him, her hazel eyes searching his. "Who was he, really? That man at the hospital? You said he was just a businessman who helped me."
Mateo looked away, unable to meet her gaze. "He was. A very powerful one. He did his part, Ysa. He's gone back to his world, and we're back in ours. That's how it should be."
"I want to go out," Ysabella said suddenly. "Not with a convoy. Not with five guards. I just want to go to my favorite coffee shop. The one where I... where I think it started."
Mateo hesitated. His instinct was to say no, to lock the gates and throw away the key. But he saw the flicker of life in her eyes—the first spark of the old, stubborn Ysabella. "Fine. One guard. Hidden. And I'll be ten minutes behind you in a separate car. Don't fight me on this, Ysa."
"Deal," she said, a small, genuine smile finally touching her lips.
L'Aube Café was exactly as she remembered it—the warm wood accents, the low hum of the espresso machine, and the sharp, comforting scent of roasted beans. Ysabella stepped inside, the chime of the door echoing like a bell in her memory.
She felt a strange sense of déjà vu as she walked toward the counter. Her heart started to pick up speed, a frantic, uneven rhythm that made her palms sweat.
"One large iced caramel macchiato, please," she said to the barista.
"Coming right up, Ma'am."
She took her drink and moved toward the back of the café. Her feet seemed to lead her instinctively toward a specific corner—a quiet section with leather armchairs and a view of the street. She sat down, her hands trembling as she clutched the plastic cup.
She took a sip. The sweetness of the caramel hit her tongue, followed by the bitter bite of the espresso.
Splat.
The sound echoed in her mind. She saw a white shirt. She saw brown liquid cascading over thick, white paper. She felt a jolt of panic.
"I... I'm so sorry," she whispered to the empty air, her voice a ghost of a memory.
She closed her eyes, trying to catch the fragment, but it slipped away like smoke. She felt frustrated, a tear pricking at the corner of her eye. She reached up to wipe it away, and as she did, she bit her lower lip—hard.
"I told you to stop doing that."
The voice didn't come from her memory. It came from right in front of her.
Ysabella's eyes snapped open.
Standing a few feet away was the man from the hospital. Zayden Spencer.
He wasn't in a blood-stained suit today. He wore a crisp, white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark navy trousers. He looked every bit the "handsome businessman" her brother described, but there was an intensity to his presence that made the air in the café feel thin.
He was holding a cup of black coffee, his blue eyes fixed on her with a look of such raw, concentrated longing that Ysabella felt the breath leave her lungs.
"You," she breathed.
Zayden didn't move. He stood there, 6'2" of golden-haired magnetism, watching her. He had promised himself he would stay away. He had told Marcus he wouldn't interfere. But when his scouts reported she was at the café—this café—he couldn't help himself. He was a moth to her flame, even if the flame didn't remember the heat.
"You're back at the scene of the crime," Zayden said, his American accent smooth and low. He took a slow step toward her, his eyes never wavering.
"The crime?" Ysabella asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.
As he got closer, a scent began to drift toward her. It wasn't the smell of the café. It was something deeper—expensive cedarwood, a hint of aged bourbon, and a faint, metallic undertone that reminded her of rain on hot pavement.
The scent hit her like a physical blow.
Fragments of memory began to stitch themselves together in her mind.
A large hand catches her wrist. The feeling of being backed against a stone pillar.
A deep voice growled, "What the f*ck?" The weight of a muscular body against hers in a dark penthouse.
Ysabella gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She stared at him, her hazel eyes wide with a dawning, terrifying realization.
"The documents," she whispered. "I... I ruined your papers. I spilled it all over you."
Zayden froze. He set his coffee down on a nearby table, his movements slow and deliberate. "You remember?"
"I remember... the coffee," she said, her voice shaking. She stood up, her legs feeling like jelly. "And I remember you telling me you were going to kill me. And then... I cried."
A small, genuine smirk touched Zayden's lips—the first real smile he had felt in weeks. "You didn't just cry, Ysabella. You made me pinch the bridge of my nose so hard I thought I'd break it. You were the most inconvenient person I'd ever met."
He took another step, closing the distance until he was standing right over her. The height difference was staggering, just like in her dreams. The "gravity" he had talked about was back, pulling her toward him with a force she couldn't resist.
"I remember the penthouse," she continued, her words coming faster now as the floodgates opened. "I remember falling... I landed on your lap. You were so angry, but you didn't push me off."
Zayden reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch from her cheek. He was waiting, giving her the choice to pull away. When she didn't, he let his hand settle against her skin. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, his touch electric.
"I couldn't push you off," Zayden murmured, his voice dropping into that intimate, predatory register. "I realized then that you were a problem I didn't want to solve. I just wanted to keep it."
Ysabella leaned into his hand, a small sob escaping her. "Why didn't they tell me? Why did Mateo say you were just a stranger?"
"Because your brother is smart," Zayden said, his blue eyes darkening. "He knows that I'm a monster, Ysabella. He knows that the world I live in is full of blood and broken deals. He wanted to give you back the clean life you fought for."
He stepped even closer, his body heat radiating through her thin blouse.
"But I'm selfish," Zayden whispered. "I saw you sitting here, biting that lip again, and I realized I don't care if your life is clean or dirty. I just want to be the one standing in it."
Ysabella looked up at him, the fragments of her memory finally forming a complete picture. She remembered the fear, yes. But she also remembered the safety. She remembered the way he had shielded her during the shootout. She remembered the diamond butterfly.
"You saved me," she said softly. "Twice."
"I'd do it a thousand times," Zayden countered. "Even if you forgot me a thousand times, I'd keep finding you in every coffee shop in this city until you remembered."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper. He unfolded it carefully. It was the paper napkin from the first day—the one she had used to try to wipe the coffee off his chest.
"I kept this," he said. "To remind me that some accidents are worth the cost."
Ysabella felt her heart swell with an emotion so intense it was almost painful. She reached up and grabbed the front of his linen shirt, bunching the fabric in her fists.
"I remember you, Zayden Spencer," she whispered, her voice firm. "I remember the American accent. I remember the gun. And I remember... I remember how you looked at me."
Zayden's jaw tightened. He looked at her lips, his control finally snapping.
"How did I look at you?" he breathed.
"Like you were going to eat me," she said with a small, defiant tilt of her chin. "Or like you were going to keep me forever."
"Both," Zayden growled.
He leaned down, his lips finally meeting hers in a kiss that was a collision of two worlds. It wasn't gentle; it was a desperate, hungry confirmation of everything they had almost lost. It tasted like caramel, black coffee, and the soul-deep relief of a man who had finally found his way back to the only person who mattered.
Ysabella melted into him, her hands sliding up to wrap around his neck, her fingers tangling in his golden hair. The void in her chest was gone, replaced by a fire that threatened to consume her.
Outside, the black SUV of Mateo's guards pulled up to the curb, but Zayden didn't care.
He had his little ghost back.
He pulled away just an inch, his forehead resting against hers. "Stop biting your lip, Ysabella," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "I think I've found a better use for them."
Ysabella laughed, a bright, clear sound that filled the café. She looked at the man who was both her captor and her savior, the Mafia Boss who had a soft spot for a clumsy accountant.
"You're still a very arrogant man, Zayden Spencer," she teased, her hazel eyes shining with memory.
"And you're still a very clumsy woman," he countered, his hand sliding down to her waist, pulling her flush against him. "Lucky for you, I'm very good at catching things that fall."
As Mateo burst through the door of the café, his hand already reaching for his phone to call for backup, he stopped dead in his tracks. He saw his sister, radiant and whole, held in the arms of the most dangerous man in Manila.
He saw the way Zayden looked at her—not like a prize, but like a miracle.
Mateo sighed and let his hand drop. He knew when a war was lost. And he knew when a story was just beginning.
Zayden looked over Ysabella's shoulder at Mateo and gave a small, victorious nod.
"The debt is settled, Ramirez," Zayden called out, his voice echoing with authority. "But the interest... the interest is going to take a lifetime to pay off."
Ysabella smiled and hid her face in Zayden's chest, the scent of cedarwood and bourbon finally making her feel like she was home.